


Premonitions

by Milo



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-08-14 12:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milo/pseuds/Milo
Summary: One meets their special someone in the strangest of scenarios.





	1. Streetfighter | Modern AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Local thug bleeds out in an alley and meets an angel.

So this is how the legendary Charlotte Katakuri would die. Alone, forgotten, left to slowly bleed out in a dark alleyway from a gunshot wound and head trauma. Hard to tell if it was the inevitability of his line of work or the delirium of blood loss that left him accepting of this fate. 

Shakily, he lifts his hand. The glove was slick and shiny with blood. More fresh hot blood leaked out through the open wound. Hm. Probably blood loss.

He wads up his shirt, shredded in the fight, and presses it up against the wound. Pain rips through him. He clenches his jaw. It wasn’t even a fatal wound for crying out loud. Was he really going to die from something stupid like this before he died in the heat of battle? Unable to hold it aloft any longer, he drops his head down against the pavement, choosing to stare up at the sky while white hot pain filled his thoughts.

People come.

They’re not his people. He can’t quite make them out, however their voices are unfamiliar to him.

“Damn. Right through the guts, huh. What a pain.” 

It’s a child’s voice. A teenager, perhaps. Katakuri shifts his eyes to try and see him, catching a spotted hat and dark hair. He wants to make a snide comment about who’s really in pain, but can’t find the energy. The kid approaches him and sits down to his right. It sounds like he opens a plastic box.

Shit. He goes rigid. They could be enemy men, here to torture him for information. And here he is, exposed, defenseless, completely at their mercy. He tries to push himself up--

There are hands cupping his face.

“Shh. It’s alright,” a second voice shushes him. “He’s a doctor, he can help.”

He can’t quite explain why, but it calms him. He still holds tight to his wound, but he stays put on the ground. The second person lifts his head and places it down upon their lap. Katakuri looks up, trying to catch a glimpse of the stranger. Eyes blurry, all he can catch are a warm smile and messy blonde hair.

“Just warning you right now,” the teenage doctor says. “I have to take that bullet out before I can fix it. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Ah. They need to root around in his gut, presumably with sharp tools. He takes in quick breaths. He’s going to pass out.

“Hey,” the person speaks up again. Their fingers comb his hair. “I’ve got you. Stay with us.”

The voice is so calm and homely that he finds it hard not to believe them. In a moment of--weakness, delirium, fear, something--Katakuri reaches up with his free hand, toward the voice. They grasp it tightly, rubbing circles over the back of it with their thumb. The doctor peels his bloody hand away, the cold air icing the torn flesh.

Silence. Then the tool plunges into him.

He screams. The doctor perches on his legs while the other person holds his shoulders down. His eyes are wide. Someone tells him to stop moving. Keeping still feels impossible. His breathing comes rapidly, molars grinding together. He clenched the person’s hand until he swore he’d snap the bones of his palm in two.

“It’s okay.” The voice calls down to him despite the chaos. So calm, so soothing. “It’s okay. It’s okay…”

He’s out like a light.


	2. Dollhouse | Arranged Marriage AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being married to someone twice your size is weird.

Being in Katakuri’s house makes him feel like a doll.

\--Or, he supposes it’s not Katakuri’s house, it’s  _ their _ house, where they live together. Not that Rocinante feels particularly at home in it. Certainly, he was thankful for his own quarters being hand-crafted to suit a ten foot man, but everything else was sized to fit Katakuri. The smallest tea tables are chest-high for him. He has to climb onto the armchair in the living room.

But all in all it’s not just the furniture that makes the house so jarring--it’s the lack of company. Rocinante isn’t sure when the last time he saw his husband was.

Husband. It still felt weird to think it. Almost three months of marriage, and he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that he’d been offered up as a bargaining chip to soothe tensions between the Big Mom pirates and the Donquixote Family. Though he’d never really expected to marry anyone--what with his job as Marine Commander taking up so much of his time--that he would marry a man who would proceed to ignore him afterwards was a bit...disheartening.

(Yes, he knew that the poor man had no more say in this than he did. Still, it hurt knowing that he was little more than a thorn in Katakuri’s side.)

Day in and day out, Rocinante spends his time alone. Unlike the other residences, Katakuri has few permanent house staff. There are no homies, no attendants, no chefs. It’s just him in this giant house.

He spends the day paging through a few of the smaller books in Katakuri’s collection; one on historical politics of the area surrounding Tottoland, another about the history of fried dough production. His attention falls flat. All he can think about is how he can’t contact Sengoku. He can’t report in. Nobody knows where he is. And no one ever will. It’s not as though Sengoku can come this far into emperor territory looking for a commander who barely even exists.

He sighs, and twists the gold band around his finger. 

The one he’d been presented with for the ceremony was lavish and gaudy; all pink, red, and gold, adorned with heart shaped jewels and whatnot. Doflamingo had picked it out, Big Mom approved it. He couldn’t remember what Katakuri’s looked like. Neither was particularly interested in the flashy rings they’d exchanged, both later settled upon those simple gold bands.

“It could be worse,” he muttered to himself. “Could’ve been that Cracker guy.”

Katakuri’s other siblings had appalling personalities. Out of the lot, he probably ended up with the least bad. Probably. Truth be told, he knew almost nothing about Katakuri.

The part of him trying to stay level-headed told him not to bother. The romantic side tugged at his curiosity. It was only natural to be curious about his own husband, right?


	3. Stranger is Typing... | Chatroom AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omegle is a site full of horny people. And sometimes potential friends.

  * > _You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!_
  * **You** : Hello.
  * **Stranger** : m
  * **Stranger** : hi
  * **You** : Myself as well.
  * **Stranger** : Ehhh sorry man nothing against you
  * > _Stranger has disconnected._



“Hm.”

Katakuri drummed his fingers on the desk. Fifth disconnect in a row. This was beginning to become predictable. True, he’d only clicked into this site for what amounted to, “shits and giggles,” as Brulee had put it. Nevertheless, only the former was fulfilled.

Her suggestion to use it had stemmed from him glancing over her shoulder, watching her toy with the droves of horny men who followed her like ducks, scrambling over each other with outstretched hands, until she spooked them with a photo of a half-naked, overly-hairy Oven, cackling until tears leaked from her eyes when they scattered like quail. Oven didn’t think she was funny.

(It was extremely funny.)

“What makes this so enjoyable is that they can’t be sure of who you are,” Brulee had said. “As far as they know, I’ve got the same gorilla chest as Oven does.”

It came coupled with a laugh--and a throw pillow flying across the room, from Oven. Maybe another would have seen it as a joke, but Katakuri caught her knowing look and quick nod to the computer screen. There was an idea bouncing around in her head.

An anonymous chat site. 

Nobody could see him. 

  * **You** : Hello.
  * **Stranger** : hi
  * **Stranger** : m or f
  * **You** : Male.
  * > _Stranger has disconnected._



Click.   


  * **Stranger** : M or F
  * **You** : Does my gender matter?
  * > _Stranger has disconnected_.



Click.   


  * **Stranger** : Are you horny
  * **You** : Can't say I am, no.
  * > _Stranger has disconnected._



Spam bot. Spam bot. Horny teenager. Random disconnect. A hello--

Ah. He clicked his tongue as the “person” on the other end proceeded to have a one-sided conversation without him, providing a link to somewhere “private". Spam bot. With a huff, he crossed his arms. His motivation to toy with this website was dropping as it became more and more evident that this was nothing but a waste of his time. Really, he should’ve just invested in a forum somewhere instead.

His hand found the mouse.

Click.

  * > _You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!_
  * **You** : Hello.
  * **Stranger** : hi
  * **Stranger** : asl



This again. He rubbed his forehead. For a moment, out of raw curiosity, he considered responding with “female,” or something other than that, just to see the reaction to it. As the conversation fell silent, he moved his cursor to leave--   


  * **Stranger** : i’m kidding :P
  * **Stranger** : been getting that all afternoon ahaha
  * **Stranger** : what’s up?



\--And paused. 

An eyebrow rose.

  * **You** : Nothing terribly interesting.
  * **You** : The general population here seems to have only one thing in mind.
  * **Stranger** : yep haha
  * **Stranger** : i don’t really get it tbh :o
  * **You** : What did you come here for? I was hoping for a decent conversation.
  * **Stranger** : me too
  * **You** : Seems we're of the same mind then.
  * **Stranger** : seems like we are :D



Silence.  Katakuri’s fingers hovered over the keys, but made no move to continue. Now, suddenly in the presence of another human being not at all interested in the contents of his pants, he was at a loss for proper conversation topics. What could he ask? What would the other person want to answer?  His mind went blank.  Say something.  _ Say something! _

As he slowly began to type again,  _ Stranger is typing… _ popped up.   


  * **Stranger** : what kind of music are you into?



He breathed a sigh of relief, and typed out an answer; one of his usual, safe ones.   


  * **You** : I’m partial to metal.
  * **Stranger** : oh really? :o that’s neat
  * **Stranger** : i like indie myself :D but anything with a good beat is nice
  * **Stranger** : got a favorite song?



The onslaught began.

Katakuri was hesitant to share more at first, sometimes physically flinching away from the conversation. He had to remind himself--this person was a stranger. They had no idea who he was just as he knew nothing about him. The person on the other side was patient with him, to a degree that rivaled his own.

He liked strawberries. They did too. They were also fond of quinoa and a variety of vegetables--an interesting contrast to his love of sweets. He liked cappuccino, and they liked their coffee black. They ended up talking about the weather, and politics, animals, and mundane little complaints until the screen was suddenly much too bright for Katakuri’s eyes and the messages began to lull.

  * **Stranger** : hm, it’s getting kinda late here haha...i should go to bed



Oh.

He felt a pang of disappointment.

  * **You** : My apologies for keeping you so late.
  * **Stranger** : it’s fine haha!! it was fun talking to you :D



It had been indeed. Dare he say he’d  _ really _ been enjoying having a pleasant, open conversation with someone for once. It’d be a shame to see it end, but alas.  The messages went silent, and he took it as a hint that the person on the other end was likely preparing for bed. He hovered the cursor over the disconnect button, hesitated, then clicked it. The warning message of  _ Are you sure? _ popped up to greet him.

  * _Stranger is typing…_



He paused.

  * **Stranger** : um
  * **Stranger** : would you want to keep in contact?
  * **Stranger** : you’re the first nice person i’ve met here and it’d be a shame to lose track of you, y’know? :)



He blinked, and reread the message a couple of times. They...wanted to keep talking with him? They wanted to stay in contact?? He was at a loss for words for a moment, before he finally moved to reply.

  * **You** : Sure.
  * **Stranger** : cool! :D



The stranger passed over a Discord name (.::C O R A Z O N::.) and number code. Katakuri did have that, at the request of a number of his siblings, but rarely if ever used it, given that he spoke to most everyone he’d added in person. Perhaps now he’d have a reason to use it.

  * **Stranger** : oh, i go by cora by the way ahaha totally forgot to introduce myself
  * **Stranger** : what’s your name?



His name. Right. 

Katakuri crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair with a hum. Well, he couldn’t use his real name--god forbid Cora looked him up and found  _ pictures _ of him somewhere. But he was never terribly creative, least of all with names. But time was passing and he needed to tell this person something…

  * **You** : I go by Mochi.
  * **Stranger** : i like that name! nice to meet you mochi :)
  * **You** : You as well.
  * **Stranger** : i gotta go for real now though haha
  * **Stranger** : talk to you tomorrow?



Talk to you tomorrow. So simple, so casual. Somehow that one simple phrase made him grin.

  * **You** : I’ll look forward to it.
  * **Stranger** : great!
  * **Stranger** : goodnight!! :)
  * _> Stranger has disconnected._



Katakuri spent a good few minutes after that simply scrolling back in the conversation, which was quite long. All just meaningless banter to the untrained eye, but he’d gotten a bit sweaty with some of these reveals. Sure, Brulee knew many of them, but she was an outlier in their family. He kept so uptight, so private even with the most basic of things.

And yet...here he’d gone and told a complete stranger that donuts and strawberry shortcake made him happy. That it was pink, not black, that was his favorite color. That he liked being around large dogs and out in summer weather.

It was...so easy. So simple. And Cora hadn’t batted an eye at any of it. His mind was still spinning.

Before signing off the computer for the night, he made sure to send out that friend request.


	4. Found Dog | Werewolf AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's probably a dog...right?

Perhaps there’s something inherently dangerous about hiking in the woods at night. Rocinante finds it tranquil. There are no large animals in the area beyond the occasional deer, so it remains relatively safe for hikers. In the twilight, there’s little else but the rustle of leaves in the breeze and summertime tree frogs peeping. The night air is crisp.  He ambles along a familiar trail paved by thousands of tourists, rangers, and jogging enthusiasts alike. The path leads along a small pond, over a little wooden bridge that covers a flowing creek, and into some thin pine trees.

A ghostly howl pierces the night.

He stops dead in his tracks. It sounded as though it weren’t too far away. Was someone’s dog loose? He couldn’t quite place the sound of the howl to a specific kind of dog, but--but it certainly sounded large. Something off in the distance shifts in the brush of the forest floor. He rapidly tries to find the source of the noise. After a moment, he realizes it’s not approaching him. It seems to be struggling.

With careful steps, he begins to creep toward what appears to be an animal. It sniffs and pants and paws at the ground. He shines his flashlight on it.

It’s a dog. Probably. 

He wants to call it a wolf, but there are no wolves in the area. Yet--it’s unlike any domestic dog he’s ever seen. It has a severe underbite, fangs jutting out from its lips almost like a boar, and the wild eyes of a feral animal. Dripping from its chin is fresh red blood. 

Rocinante steps back, looking around wildly. Had it been hunting? Was there an animal--or worse, a human--hurt somewhere? He shines his flashlight through the area.

The dog whines pitifully. It turns and begins to gnaw at its own leg--and that’s when Rocinante sees it; the tarnished metal trap holding the dog firmly in place. He frowns. The skin around the area has been chewed raw. It seems as though the poor thing was intending to bite its own leg off in order to free itself. It licks at its wound and continues to attempt to rip its own flesh from the bone.

He inhales deeply. Alright. He has a choice. He can leave and go home, allowing the animal to free itself. Or--he eyes the dog warily as it flattens its ears against its head and growls at him. Or...he can save someone the pain of seeing their beloved pet with a stub leg. 

If it were his dog, what would he do? The answer is obviously that he wouldn’t even have a dog, he’s terrified of them. This one is no exception. 

But... _ but _ …

He exhales, _ inhales _ , then exhales again. Then, he approaches the dog from behind, and drops to his knees. The dog growls lowly at him again, making him flinch.

“It--it’s okay. It’s okay,” he says, more to himself than to the dog. “I’m not gonna do anything--”

When he puts his hands on the trap, it squirms to get away from him, yelping as the metal teeth of the trap scrape against its open wound. Rocinante steadies the trap and, with another deep breath, wedges the flashlight into it. Then, he begins to pry the jaws open. Slowly, slowly. The spring of the trap is rusted and tough. But, sure enough, it begins to lessen its grip. And with it, the dog’s leg slides out freely. He pulls out his flashlight. The trap snaps shut. The dog at first tries to run, but immediately yelps and collapses again as it puts weight on its wounded leg. Its body is shaking violently. 

Rocinante watches it try to get to its feet again. It’s clearly exhausted, weary. He approaches it slowly. It turns to look at him, ears perking up. It sniffs the air between them, then hobbles toward him. It almost seems to understand that he helped--though he knows it’s just a dog and honestly wouldn’t.

He probably shouldn’t leave it out in the woods, not when it’s injured like it is.

 

* * *

 

Early morning light filters in through the window. Katakuri slowly blinks, trying to bring himself to wakefulness. His head is pounding and his right leg feels like it’s been sawed off. When he looks around him, he--

Wait.

He immediately sits up. He’s sleeping on a couple fleece blankets on a cement floor…in a tool shed. Not one he’s familiar with either. It’s barren and simplistic, nothing more than plywood and dated appliances. On the floor is a water bowl and a half-eaten bowl of canned dog food. He rubs his head and finally notices his complete lack of clothes, the strong odor of dog hair, and the  _ disgusting _ taste in his mouth.

...Well, fuck. It happened again.

As he sits there on the floor, wondering to himself how much the person who found him had seen, he caught sight of his throbbing leg. It was bandaged by a steady hand, and a peek underneath the wrappings showed that someone had even tried stitching the wound. He flexes his toes. Sure, it hurt like hell, but everything still seemed to work.  Wrapping one of the fleece blankets around his waist, he turns toward one of the small, dirtied shed windows. He was in the woods somewhere, in the backyard of some cottage house. None of the lights within the house were on. Good. Whoever lived there was likely sleeping. 

He tests the door. It was unlocked, thankfully. Without a second thought, he limps off into the trees.


	5. Night Stalker | Monster AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've probably been watching too many murder mystery documentaries at this point.

Hard to say how long Katakuri’s been in police custody now. Hours, perhaps. There’s no clock in the interrogation room nor is he allowed to have his personal items, including his phone. The handcuffs encircling his wrists are starting to hurt as they scrape against the bare skin.

They can’t hold him here, he knows. He’s well aware of his rights as a free citizen. Yet--he also knows the unspoken rules. He’s a convicted criminal. Only for petty things in his youth, but a criminal nonetheless. And being the second son in a large, infamous family didn’t help his case much either. Still, he held his head up high as the officers snapped and snarled at him. After all, he had nothing to hide.

“I’ll ask you one more time,  _ Charlotte _ ,” the officer hisses. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you shoot them? Are they buried on the outskirts of town?”

“I don’t know.”

One officer sighs and rubs his temple. The other scrunches up his face. Katakuri merely blinks at them. He’s been repeating that phrase all afternoon now. It’s starting to sound less like actual words at this point. But it’s all he can say, really.

“Fine.” The officer jerks his head toward the door. “Get out.”

Once released, he wastes no time making his way out of the godforsaken police office. Near to the door, however, he spots a familiar blonde man in an orange and yellow sweater nervously fiddling around with a satchel. Katakuri blinks. Had Rocinante been waiting here for him the entire time?

“Ah!” Upon spotting him, Rocinante hurries over. “Kata--are you alright?”

“Tired,” he replies honestly. “But unharmed. The only thing I’ve lost here is my time.”

Rocinante follows along closely behind him as he exits, first darting to the right, then to the left, eyes filled with worry. Katakuri raises his eyebrows.

“...What was it that they thought you did?” Rocinante asks finally, as though fearful of the answer.

“They were homicide investigators,” Katakuri says simply. “Apparently three people I was once acquainted with have gone missing. I believe they’re of the mind that I may have been involved in their disappearances.”

Which was ridiculous, to say the least. He already had far too many siblings and stepsiblings, nephews, nieces, cousins--there were so many people to take care of that he had precious little time to do anything else. All three in question were minor irritations, yes, but it wasn’t worth it to bother with a kidnapping or, god forbid, murder. Not that the officers would care. As far as they were concerned, a tall, muscular man with a few felony charges was excellent to blame.

Rocinante was alarmed. “They...they think you killed those people?”

“I suppose so. But, as I did not, and there is no evidence linking me to the crime beyond several coincidences, there is little they can do,” Katakuri continues. “There is nothing to worry about, Rocinante.”

Though he sees Rocinante nod, he can feel the discomfort emanating from him.

(He can only hope that Rocinante doesn’t suspect him as well.)

 

* * *

 

A week later, one of the officers disappears from a cookout in his own backyard. Katakuri is brought in for questioning before being subsequently released due to lack of evidence. He finds it a strange occurrence, but doesn’t dwell on it too much.

At least, not until Rocinante became the next missing person.

The first thing he feels is an overwhelming sense of remorse. Maybe he wasn’t the direct cause of these kidnappings, but, somehow, someway, he was connected. Because Rocinante had been close to him, he’d become a target of--of someone with a grudge, perhaps? An enemy of his mother? He’d wracked his brain so many, many nights. So many leads, so many questions he just couldn’t answer.

Nothing panned out. He’d taken to searching for Rocinante himself.

Night after night, just him alone with a flashlight trudging through the deep woods. Brulee reprimanded him for it. He could take care of himself. There wasn’t anything in there he couldn’t handle. And in the case there was? Well, he’d brought the trident along for a reason.

Upon this particular excursion, down a trail less traveled, he stumbles upon a strange sight. A ways down the track, he finds a disturbed patch of earth. It seemed as though someone, or something, had dragged a rather sizable object through the undergrowth. What was more concerning, however, was that the leaves of some low-growing plants were stained with something wet and dark. He shines the light on it and catches the familiar sight of fresh blood.

_ Squelch _ .

He freezes. 

Somewhere in the distance, he hears the tearing of flesh and cloth. Crunching, chewing, tearing. He narrows his eyes and clicks off the light. Best not to let whatever it is see him in the event it’d prefer a different meal. Slowly, he creeps toward the sound, careful not to cause a disturbance. He grips his trident tightly, ready at a second’s notice to thrust it forward to defend himself.

The body on the forest floor makes him falter.

He has to look twice. Yes--yes that’s definitely a human corpse. In the dark it was hard to tell exactly, but from the bald head and bushy mustache, it seemed like it was the missing officer who’d harassed him a few days prior. 

A--well, he’s not sure what it is. It’s too well camouflaged to make out a clear figure. Whatever it is, it’s perched over the man, and--appeared to be consuming him. The unidentifiable mass of feathers and teeth isn’t what surprises him, though. It’s when it reaches out to tear the man’s shirt off further and hums in disappointment that his eyes widen.

“Perhaps your coworkers will learn a lesson, hm?” the creature says in an unmistakably familiar voice. “One ought to consider an innocent man as such until found guilty…”

“...Roci?”

The monster shrieks. It flutters away into the bushes, wings flapping wildly, feet clawing up dirt. As it goes, Katakuri catches sight of the half-eaten human corpse, eyes and mouth wide open in absolute terror, innards and skin a mess of red. His attention goes back to Rocinante--or, at least, what he hopes is Rocinante.

“That’s--it’s you, isn’t it? I’ve been so worried,” Katakuri calls out softly. “Did you leave because of the rumors?” A pause. He swallows, then continues, “You have my word, I would  _ never _ hurt you.”

He hears Rocinante shifting in the dark somewhere, though he doesn’t see anything. It’s so eerily quiet otherwise. No insects, no owls, not even the breeze breaks the silence. The deeply unnatural feel of the situation makes him itch and fidget. What is this? He wonders to himself as he urges onward. What has his hair standing on end?

“...Ahahaha.”

Rocinante chuckles. Not light and airy as usual, but weak and broken.

“I know,” Rocinante whispers. “I know you’d never harm me.”

A twig snaps. Tall grass rustles, weeds are pressed to the ground. Katakuri stares at the darkness before him as something--that thing from before creeps toward him with a deceptive slowness. He takes a step back.

Then, the moonlight reveals a figure; a tall, ruffled body of black feathers that shone blue, two strong legs ending in large talons. A face attached to a long, downy neck--a face he’d recognize anywhere, even in the blood-splattered state it was in. It was Rocinante. A grimace was on his face, small fangs protruding from his lips. Dried trickles of blood were glued to his chin and neck. His eyes were a brilliant bright red.

“You’re not the monster, Katakuri,” Rocinante says. “ _ I _ am.”


	6. Treachery | Celestial!Roci AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A show of kindness, after everything he's been through? Something is wrong.

“What? You want a turn? Fufufu. That’s not like you, Rocinante.”

Katakuri cracks open an eye, blinking through the blood dripping into it. It’s Doflamingo’s voice. While the other Celestials are happily jabbing, smacking, and yanking on him, his usual tormentor is across the room. He’s chatting with some other Celestial, his white clothes spattered with Katakuri’s blood. He’s never seen this Celestial before. But the way this person was watching him--he knew what was coming. There was only one thing he’d want.

“Perhaps I’m merely curious,” the newcomer, Rocinante, says, gaze fixed on Katakuri. “You’ve taken a liking to this one, specifically, after all.”

Katakuri watches, three daggers lodged in his thigh, several fangs broken with the sensitive root exposed, dissociating as familiar stings of pain wrack his body. A new Celestial. New. He couldn’t determine what sort of punishment was coming for him. He wouldn’t be able to brace himself ahead of time.

He’s not sure what gets him, blood loss or fatigue, but he loses consciousness soon after that to the sound of cackling. The prospect of waking up somewhere completely unfamiliar--perhaps yet another dungeon, a gathering of Celestials looking for a bit of, “live entertainment”--was enough to keep Katakuri on constant edge, eternally fatigued. When sleep finally did claim him, it was frightening. The brief loss of consciousness was both a respite and a curse.

This time he’d woken in the strangest scenario of all. A bedroom. Furnished with lavish, likely gold-leaf encrusted wallpaper and polished oak furniture decorated with gemstones, but a standard bedroom from all other angles. Typically, he’d wake up on the icy cold cell floor after a moment’s rest. But here--

He jolts to alertness, ignoring the searing pain of both fresh and old wounds. Someone’s placed him in a bed. Two, to be exact. Likely because he was far too big to fit a regular king-sized bed. It’s warm, soft, the blankets downy and tailor-made. It’s the first time in years he’s laid his head down on an actual pillow.

Something was wrong.

He scans the room fearfully. Whenever he was taken somewhere other than the slave barracks, something was _always_ wrong. He checks himself, recalling the day prior. The pain in his legs is still there, though it’s numbing. Seastone shackles are still tight. His teeth still ache. As far as he can tell there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Until he sees the bandages around said numbing wounds. Stained wrappings cover up dozens of punctures, stabs, festering blisters, and deep cuts. They’ve been carried out meticulously, as though someone had actually called a doctor to clean his injuries. Which was a ridiculous concept. Slaves were expendable.

(God forbid someone in the house was playing with him like a doll. Or worse, playing with him as some kind of medical experiment to treat and inflict future wounds upon.)

The doorknob twists. Katakuri stiffens.

A blonde-haired man in a fairly modest suit walks in carrying a silver tray loaded to the brim with food. Katakuri blinks. Poison? Or perhaps the food was made out of something inedible, the goal being to mock him as he devoured something in pure desperation--

“Ah, you’re awake,” the man speaks, smiling at him. Katakuri stays silent. “I was planning to leave this here for when you woke up, but you’re welcome to it now.”

After nearly tripping over several chairs and crushing the whole arrangement, he sets the tray down on the table. Katakuri stares at it but makes no move toward it. There’s hot tea, three different kinds of bread, fresh cold cuts, a selection of fruit--even a couple pastries tucked into the ensemble. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted beyond words. His muscles had wasted away from slow, steady starvation and his innards throbbed at the idea of real sustenance.

(It’s a trap. It’s fake, it’s a ruse, the moment he takes something he’ll discover there’s needles baked into the bread, mercury in the donuts, the apples riddled with parasites. _It’s a trap, it’s a trap, it’s a trap-_ -)

He stares at Rocinante with an emotionless front despite his hunger, feigning disinterest, waiting for the moment the Celestial loses his temper and forces him to eat. It never takes long.

“...No?” Rocinante tilts his head to the side. “Very well. I’ll leave it here, if you change your mind.”

Then Rocinante slips back out, closing the door behind him to leave Katakuri in a moment of disbelief. Usually, Celestials waited to watch him suffer. He side-eyes the food. Was it a slow to act torture? Something that would render him incapacitated later?

It had to be a trick. It was always a trick. Always, always, always.

He sits without budging. For how long, he’s not sure. Long enough that the sun rises and sits high in the sky by the time the scent of fresh food and the prospect of regaining some meat on his bones finally wins out over his better judgement.

The bread first. He picks it apart. Crushes several slices. No needles. Picks up a pastry Tears it, pulls it apart, until it’s a mess of bread and filling on a plate. The fruits, tiny in comparison to his gigantic hands, are squashed until juice drips down his hand. No parasites. The tea bags contain tea. The meat is just average slices of bacon, slightly burnt.

It’s just food.

 _It’s just food_.

There had to be something wrong. There was always, always, **_always_ ** something wrong. Whenever he let his guard down for but a second--that’s when they snuffed out whatever glimmer of hope he might have had that things would be different. He contemplates what Rocinante plans to do to him. Doflamingo was keen on throwing wild parties and bloodletting. Others preferred the simplicity of stabbing, riding upon his back, or breaking his bones. Is Rocinante aiming to lower his guard, only to turn around and shoot him the second he steps out of line?

Still, the ruined meal ends up in his mouth. He devours every single edible thing in sight; even the fruit peel, bacon grease, and smears of jelly didn’t go untouched.

Food. _Good_ food. He feels his eyes water. Like the kind of multi-course, personalized breakfasts he took for granted back in Tottoland. It feels like, if for only a second, he could almost pretend he was a person again.

Almost.

The pain of sugar on his exposed teeth reminds him that he’s nothing but a _thing_. That Rocinante will come back, and everything will be the same way it was with every other Celestial Dragon. That he’s likely to starve to death slowly, body aching as it devours itself. Or bleed to death. Or maybe he’d get lucky and a well-aimed sword strike or flintlock pistol would end him in an instant.

Rocinante had something sinister planned. He squints at the doorway. And he was going to figure out what it was.


	7. Vulnerability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trust shows itself in interesting ways. Just a short on-the-spot drabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed in the comments that some folks are looking for continuations of other chapters! If there's any piece you'd like to see expanded upon specifically, lemme know!

He’s vulnerable.

Not terribly so. The rope binding Katakuri’s limbs and torso is nothing but twine, the blindfold could easily be snapped. No, in a rare moment of compliance, he’s allowing himself to be at the mercy of his partner. The partner he cannot see, touch, or hear.

(He knows there’s no danger. Nevertheless, the situation makes his heart pound.)

He twitches. The first contact is to his neck. Rocinante’s fingers trail from his jawbone, over his throbbing jugular, and to his collar. It’s soft, delicate. Almost as though he’d been brushed by a feather. Not a single sound--not even that of skin-to-skin contact or Rocinante’s breathing--can be heard from him. The only noise in the room comes from the twists of rope against itself, the flow of air through Katakuri’s nose, and the beating of his own heart in his veins.

He has to shake his head a bit to ward off the tinnitus.

Rocinante taps three times on his shoulder with two fingers. A silent question they’d discussed beforehand; _everything alright?_

“I’m fine,” Katakuri says with a confident nod. “Merely unused to the sensation.”


	8. Battle Born | Historical Wartime AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Katakuri goes for a walk in the orchard and gets more than he bargained for.

Explosions echo over the hills. Katakuri notices his morning tea shudder as the aftershock of a heavy bombshell rattles the gazebo. 

He casts his gaze off into the horizon. The battle is miles away, too far off for him to tell exactly what’s happening. The hazy dust clouds, however, are clear as day. There’s little for him to worry over. Close though they may be, the risk is only minimal. Tottoland is neutral territory and mother gave the order to slaughter all sides who crossed their borders. It was a threat neither warring side was willing to test.

Still. That this had come so far into the countryside had him on edge. There were few of their own battalion stationed out here. Katakuri lived alone save for a few housekeeping staff. Admittedly, he was far past his prime, especially so after suffering several major injuries.

(No. Don’t think about that. Don’t.)

He inhales a breath, then exhales. A hint of gunpowder and hot metal lingers in the air, yet it’s overshadowed by the fruit-bearing trees around him. The sweet scent of ripening apples and fallen leaves calms him once more.

An early morning walk, perhaps, would help his nerves.

Once his tea and modest breakfast are finished, he leaves the gazebo for the dirt path through the orchard. The crop isn’t quite ready for harvest; the apples are far too small for his liking. Still, he eyes them with interest, images of freshly fried pastries slathered in jam and spiced seasonal holiday desserts forming in his mind’s eye.  Another thunderous boom. His expression fades to neutrality. A gust of wind shakes the orchard’s trees, knocking loose a few stray leaves.

Someone coughs.

Immediately, he’s on guard. The orchard staff are gone for the weekend, excused to spend a minor holiday it with their families. House staff had no need to come this far out onto the estate, not without prior warning. He should be perfectly alone. He runs through the lay of the land in his mind. The shed’s gardening tools would work in a pinch, if necessary to fight. A flare gun was hidden among them as well in case of emergency.  His hand hovers over an old pitchfork, still stuck in a small hay bale, leaning against part of the wooden fence. 

The cough turns into a wheezing fit. He hesitates. 

It’s a familiar sound--that of a sickly person struggling to relieve their own wet congested lungs. The weakness within the sound, however, piqued his curiosity.  Slowly, he advances, mindful of the dried leaves at his feet. It’s toward the edge of the apple trees that he finally catches a glimpse of this unknown trespasser, slumped beneath a younger plant, leaves still green. A man in a dented, rusty metal helmet and a soiled uniform. 

A soldier. 

From which side, Katakuri couldn’t be sure. His clothes were so filthy, stained by grime and blood, that whatever color it may have been was long forgotten. In his arms was a blanket roll, undone and covering what looked to be a rucksack. If he was armed, Katakuri couldn’t tell. Not that he felt threatened. From the pained gasps, the soldier likely didn’t have the strength to defend himself let alone strike the first blow.

He decides to take his chances.

The wounded soldier slowly lifts his head to look at Katakuri as he approaches. It’s then that he catches the man’s hair and eye color; strikingly blonde, but singed and blackened by soot, each eye a different color. There’s alarm in his expression, but also an overwhelming exhaustion, resignation, and--relief. Which leaves Katakuri perplexed.

“You’ve strayed rather far from the trenches into the true no man’s land,” Katakuri states. “Surely you, of all people, must be aware of the understanding here.”

The soldier merely blinks. Then, he shifts, unwraps the blanket bundle, and gently slides it toward Katakuri. At first he freezes, wondering if the dying man had come for a preliminary suicide bombing attack. However, he peels back the rough wool fabric to reveal a small boy, perhaps no older than eight or nine years of age. He, too, is dirty and has sustained minor injuries. Likely hungry and dehydrated as well, if the way the boy was shaking meant anything.

“He’s a civilian refugee,” the man croaks. “Doesn’t count.”

Katakuri looks at the boy, then back at the soldier, who was now trying to stand. And he could, with great effort and the apple tree to support him. 

It was clear he’d suffered some serious attacks; his shirt was torn on the arms, pants ripped at the knees, and there were packs upon packs of bandages stuffed into various holes in his torso. Upon his uniform, embroidered in simple, now stained white letters, was the name, “D. ROCINANTE.” Without another word, Rocinante began to hobble back in the general direction of the echoing artillery fire.

“With wounds like that, you’ll to bleed dry long before catching sight of the battlefield again,” Katakuri says.

“Maybe,” was the soft reply. His breath hitches, then he flinches, likely having pulled on an already painful wound. “...I’d rather die trying to find my squad than stay here and allow you to shoot me.”

The comment makes Katakuri’s eyebrows raise. As Rocinante limps off, occasionally stopping to rest or brush off the leaves sticking to his damp legs, he cannot help but feel a bit of respect. It took a certain kind of strength to keep going despite the bleak circumstances. It called back to a time Katakuri usually looked upon with mixed emotions--but still, still there had been that pride as a soldier, that battle bond between fellow men at arms that pushed him onward, too.

(Had he really forgotten that feeling?)

Seconds later, Rocinante’s legs give out under him. Minutes after that, a flare gun signals a physician.


	9. Glow | Mermaid AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness retains its secrets.

It’s always the same. Rocinante inches up right near to the trench and peers down into the inky depths, which at first start with a clear gradient but quickly descend into an abyssal nothingness. Everyone else who frequents the reef avoids this underwater cliff side. It’s dangerous for him to be there, too, given his bright orange and white coloration highlighting him for all predators to see. 

And yet...

_ Yet _ …

“Kata?” he calls out. “Kata, are you down there?”

He hears something. Debris falling against the deep sea cliff face. Scratching. He stares longer. Then, in the darkness, he sees it; a tiny, hazy red light. Enough to draw his attention but not nearly enough to see what was attached to it.

“You’re a fool to venture this far into the open ocean,” comes a familiar deep voice, which sounds much closer than it is in all likelihood.

Rocinante laughs and rests his arms against the rocky edge. His frilly fins sway with the current. “Can’t I come over to visit sometimes?” he asks. “You never come up to visit me back at the anemone, so it’s either this or nothing.”

The red light blinks. It moves around, bobbing to and fro. He swears--just for a second, that he saw the glow hit a part of his mysterious friend’s body. Long and dark. Just like the rest of the contents of his surroundings. He never expected Katakuri to be bright and colorful like him, no. But it’s that in itself that makes him so  _ interesting _ .

“I can’t leave,” Katakuri responds.

“You always say that,” Rocinante says. “Is it the light? I could come back at night to--”

“ _ No _ .”

Firm and sharp, enough to make Rocinante recoil a bit. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it again, and then takes to twiddling his fingers. The red light is stationary.

“...Do you...not want me to visit anymore?”

A pause. Again, the light blinks. Rocinante hears the sound of something slide against the face of the trench. Something  _ very _ large--is Katakuri aware of whatever it is? Rocinante struggles to see through the pitch. His eyes aren’t suited for this.

“If I come out there,” Katakuri says softly. “You’re going to see me.” And before Rocinante has time to say anything about it, he continues, “And I can guarantee--neither you nor anyone else is going to like that.”

Rocinante’s always imagined Katakuri as a fellow fish merman; frilly, scaly, normal looking. However...the trench, it was different down there, wasn’t it? He focuses on the light, which is oh so tantalizing as always. He’s never seen anyone from there, though he’s heard some strange rumors about twisted, warped beings lying in wait.

That large thing moves again, and he wonders just how much of that darkness is, in fact, his friend.


	10. Fresh Linens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just pure fluff to be honest.

Rocinante’s dedication to domesticity never failed to astound Katakuri.

“Why are you making the bed.”

When Katakuri says it, Rocinante pauses, the striped brown, pink, and white sheets half-covering the mattress (which looked so comically oversized compared to him). He looks a bit winded, as though it were a daunting task, which only further confuses Katakuri.

“We needed clean sheets,” Rocinante answers simply, resuming his work tugging down the sheets on the lower right corner of the bed.

“We have a maid for that purpose.” Katakuri leans on the door frame. “If you wanted the entire room tidied, all one needs to do is call. Or send me a request.”

Rocinante huffs and shakes his head. He doesn’t answer until the fitted sheet is neatly attached to the bed (or as good as it’s going to get). Satisfied with his handiwork and tired from scrambling over the furniture like some clumsy animal building a nest, he turns to Katakuri with a smile.

“I wanted to do it myself,” he says. “It’s more fun that way.”

His spouse’s definition of, “fun,” remained ever questionable. Yet, when Rocinante tugs on his arm and gestures to the top sheet and duvet, Katakuri decides to play along anyway. There’s no harm in it.

It’s hard to resist the urge to just put the sheet on by himself--he and Rocinante hold the linen at different heights, move weirdly together, and have completely different levels of strength. But he purposely slows down to follow Rocinante’s lead, taking care not to knock him over in the process of tucking the sheet under the mattress. The duvet cover and pillows are easy enough, the work split right down the middle.

“One last thing...” Rocinante places the last remaining throw pillow, one covered in colorful songbirds, onto the bed. “Done!”

He sits back in the middle of their bed. Katakuri stares at their handiwork.  They’re nowhere as talented at making the bed as the housekeepers. Several pillowcases are on backwards, two don’t even match, and the duvet is turned so that the buttons and tags are by their faces. 

“This looks awful,” Katakuri says bluntly.

Rocinante plops down on the bed, gives his husband an irritated look, and sticks out his tongue.

“Too bad. We’re sleeping in this terrible, horrible bed tonight,” he says. “And you’re going to like it.”

Katakuri raises his eyebrows. “Am I to believe  _ you _ intend to control  _ me _ within my own home?”

He raises an arm in a preliminary defense against the taffy-shaped throw pillow he sees Rocinante toss at him in a vision. Seconds later, it bounces off of him and plops to the floor. 

Rocinante then tugs at the bottom of Katakuri’s jacket in a gesture for him to come onto the bed. It’s not even enough to budge him normally, but he follows through with it and comes to rest beside Rocinante. There’s no irritation in his husband’s face, merely a wide goofy grin. His hands squish Katakuri’s cheeks as he brings his face in for a chaste kiss.

“We can call the maid if it bothers you, though,” Rocinante says softly.

Katakuri snorts, then tucks Rocinante under his chin. “I only follow through with things I want to do.”


	11. Frontiersmen | Western AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just two guys out on the wild open prairie.

A can blows off the fence, shot through by a .38 bullet. Rocinante lowers the weapon and offers a smirk to his companion. Katakuri raises his eyebrows.

“So you _can_ shoot.”

“Had a .36 in the navy,” Rocinante replies, sheathing the flintlock. “I know my way around a couple other weapons, too.”

“Hm.”

When Katakuri snatched him, Rocinante had been a neatly-dressed, cravat-wearing, finely groomed gentleman from high class society. As was the way of things, he’d expected the man to be effectively useless in any tumultuous scenario that occurred outside of a parlor. After all he’d fallen from his horse multiple times without reason.

Yet--the man continued to surprise him. He was well-versed in edible wild plants, survival skills, disguises, and had talked his way out of several precarious situations. Naval experience explained it.

With that, Rocinante returned to their makeshift fire pit, patting the rump of his horse on his way. Katakuri catches sight of his wrists--and the red stripe of rope burn circling them like bracelets. Some days ago, he’d been a captive. A prisoner Katakuri fully intended to hold for ransom. Few names had more wealth to their name than the Donquixote Family. And mother wanted a cut from that.

That was what the plan _had_ been, at least.

“We still have two cans of tomatoes left,” Rocinante says as he rummages through his pack. “One can of peaches. Looks like there should be enough salted meat for the two of us, but we will have to eat that sparingly. The canteens are low.”

“Perhaps we should retrace our steps to the river, then,” Katakuri says.

“Ah--If memory serves, there should be a lake a few miles out.” Rocinante cranks open a can of tomatoes with a torn label and dumps the contents into a cast iron pot. “That way we won’t have to backtrack. Good opportunity to go fishing, too. Smoked fish will keep.”

How pleased Rocinante seemed to be, with himself and with their situation. Out in the prairie cooking up canned vegetables, wild mushrooms and herbs, and what little packaged meat they had. He’d long since stripped off his suit and tie for merely his undershirt and trousers. The cravat was a glorified napkin, little more than a cloth rag which had been used to halt bleeding at least twice now.

Rocinante had shown him the constellations drawn up centuries ago as they laid under the stars. Fanciful stories of old heroes and mythical beasts that Katakuri only cared to listen to if only for the joy Rocinante took in telling them.

Strange how freeing that abduction had been, both for Rocinante and for Katakuri.

They’re on a schedule. Mother expects them back to collect a proper ransom for Rocinante’s safe return. Simple in theory. Katakuri finds himself wholeheartedly disinterested in returning to the mountains. Isolated on the open prairie, he could do whatever he wanted. Mother was not here to send him on missions. There were no sibling disputes to break up.

Here, it was only him and Rocinante. City lights and family strife were miles away.

“To the lake then,” Katakuri finally says, settling down alongside Rocinante. “In the morning.”

Rocinante offers him a grin. It glows in the firelight as the sun sets.

“If it’s early enough, we might see one of the planets,” he says. “Mars is strikingly red.”

Katakuri hums. Truth be told it didn’t matter too much where they went or what they saw. It was only special in Rocinante’s company, after all.


End file.
